


No Gods, No Masters

by Spacewhalewriting



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Murderers, Self-Indulgent, Therapy, Therapy gone wrong, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacewhalewriting/pseuds/Spacewhalewriting
Summary: Elizabeth is off her meds and having a hard time keeping her anger in check. Her therapist, Doctor Lecter, suggests some non-traditional therapy to help her manage her emotionsFind the podfic for the blind and audiophiles on Soundcloud here: https://soundcloud.com/tess-cooper-313076621/no-gods-no-masters-chapter-1
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character(s), Hannibal lecter/Elizabeth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	No Gods, No Masters

“How have you been doing, Elizabeth?”

“I’m fine, how are you?” She said, then bit her tongue and pondered for a second. It was a reflex, but she wasn’t here to indulge in social niceties. She took a deep breath in. “Ask me again.” She said. She was sitting somewhat uncomfortably in Dr. Lecter’s plush office, looking at one of his houseplants, at the beautiful oriental rug under her feet- really, anywhere but at him.

“How have you really been doing?” He asked, his cool gray eyes fixed on her.

“Not so great. I can’t eat, so I can’t take my meds without throwing up, so I’ve been having some rough nights.” She said. He tilted his head to the side to look at her as if she were fascinating.

“Tell me about these rough nights.”

“I’ve been thinking about hanging myself again.”

“You only talk about that mode of suicide when your professor’s office is involved. Am I to assume that these feelings are centered on him?”

“Yeah.” She said, feeling a little lame that she was so obviously read.

“Hanging is very personal choice. When self assisted, the chances of breaking your neck are slim and it often takes several minutes to die from asphyxiation, leaving the victim to possibly change their mind too late. And to do it in someone else’s personal space makes a very clear statement. What do you think you are trying to tell him?”

“’You don’t feel anything, maybe you’ll feel something now.’...maybe.”

“So you want him to feel the way you do. You seek understanding from someone you think cannot possibly understand you, so you feel that you must seek drastic action to get what you want.” He said. She finally looked at him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get what I want from him. He belittles my work at every opportunity because it’s expository, instead of abstract and obscure like his.”

“There is nothing wrong with art that has a clear message. Art’s purpose is not to please an audience, it is to express the self and explore the inner workings of ego.”

“I don’t think it’s my ego getting in the way here.” She protested. Dr. Lecter smiled.

“The ego, in psychological terms, is the the part of the mind that mediates between the conscious and the unconscious and is responsible for a sense of personal identity. Your professor’s attempt to separate your work from your identity is abhorrent to you because to you there is no separation.” He said. She fidgeted. He continued. “I would like to pose a question: Why insist on harming yourself when your negative experiences and feelings are caused by someone whose actions you cannot control?” He asked, playing with the sleek barreled fountain pen between his fingers. She opened her mouth but took a moment to formulate.

“I suppose growing up, especially as a woman, it was never appropriate for me to be angry. I was always punished if I expressed anger, so I started turning it inwards because punishing myself was socially appropriate.”

“So why not kill him instead of yourself?” He asked, his eyebrows raising cooly.

“Right.” She said, running a hand through her hair and trying to destress from just thinking about the feat that reflecting her anger onto the right person would be. How that confrontation would go and how she would go in with the intention of standing up for herself but immediately falter and wilt.

“Anger is one of the most primal emotions, it is pre-human. There is nothing to be ashamed about for feeling appropriate anger. Before our next session I would like you to meditate on your anger and your right as a sapient animal to feel it and to direct it to its appropriate places.” He said.

Elizabeth took the bus home at the end of her hour, thinking about this. It helped to have an understanding instead of just swimming in the hot mental soup that was her feelings, but having an understanding of the situation didn’t fix it. She simmered with resentment towards her professor, and with another year of grad school to go she didn’t know how she was supposed to get through it when she received so little respect as an artist and a professional. She’d made it there, didn’t that mean she had the merit to make it through? Why accept her into the program in the first place if all he wanted to do was attack her work?

She got home to her little studio apartment and dropped her backpack on the floor of the living room, which was also where her bed was, collapsing into it. She crawled under her weighted blanket, feeling the pressure relax her a little bit, but anxiety was buzzing in her chest as if her ribcage were trying and failing to expand like a bubble and let it out. But it was a throbbing cyst inside her, hard from its own pressure and painful to the touch. She pulled out her phone and checked her messages. There was an email. From the last person she wanted to talk to.

_You didn’t show up to our meeting, so I assume you don’t want to talk about your grade and I should make whatever decision I’m going to make about it._

Fuck. She bolted up in bed. She’d had a meeting with her professor today right after therapy, but she’d been so exhausted that she’d come straight home with the intention of sleeping. She was thirty minutes late and she’d be even later even if she left now.

_I’m so sorry, I just got home, can we meet later today?_

She waited, fighting down the desire to hyperventilate by gulping down long, slow breaths and holding them until she couldn’t anymore and letting them out very, very slowly until her lungs ached in a comforting way. She got her response fifteen minutes later.

_I’ll be in the studio late preparing for my New York show, come in at nine. Be present._

_Be present_. That was something that her parents had always accused her of. Not being present in her own life. Little did she know it was something most early-gifted-actually-ADHD kids heard. She didn’t know how much more effort she could possibly put in. How many more hours, how much more planning. She was giving it 100% and still failing and that made her feel like a talentless hack. He made her feel like a talentless hack despite her best efforts, and for that, she felt angry. Instinctively she shoved it back down, swallowing it like hot coals.

________________________________________

9:08 pm, Hannibal Lecter’s office.

Just as he was shrugging on his impeccably tailored blue jacket and turning off his desk lamp, the phone rang. He picked up to a frantic patient.

“Dr. Lecter, help me!” Elizabeth babbled as soon as he picked up, her voice breathy and scared. “I need help.” Hannibal adjusted his collar so it laid correctly, his demeanor as cool and unbothered as ever.

“Elizabeth, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call-” She broke off with a little sob, her breath pitching sharp and terrified through the phone. She was beginning to have a panic attack and that would make her unreachable.

“Elizabeth,” He said. “You must calm down. Tell me where you are and I will come to you.”

“Thank you.” She choked out. “I’m...I’m at his studio in his office. I just- I lost my temper, I hit him- There’s blood. God-”

“Focus, Elizabeth.” Hannibal said. “Are you on the campus?”

“Uhuh. The new building, in the back.” She was beginning to sound faint.

“I’m coming.” He said, hanging up the phone.

___________________________________________

“Hello, Professor. I hear you’ve been very rude.” Said Hannibal politely, leaning over a little as if bowing to the gagged and bound man just blinking awake to find himself hanging upside down from a tree limb. Hannibal’s car’s headlights made a patch of light in the darkness, focused on the tree. When Dr. Lecter had shown up Elizabeth had thought that maybe she was crazy but maybe she was saved. He was very calm about everything and that gave her a sort of confidence that he knew what he was doing and everything would be okay. That this was entirely normal. He’d arrived at the scene and after checking the professor’s pulse, declared him alive but unconscious from the blunt force trauma of a clay pot to the temple. How they got from there to here was all a matter of a conversation.

“Did you get a chance to meditate on your anger like I asked you to?” He asked her.

“No. I mean I tried to think about it and this-” she gestured to her unconscious and bleeding professor. “This happened.”

“Lets process that now, shall we?” Hannibal said. She gave him a frantic look. “No time like the present.”

“What do you mean? Process my anger, I’m just angry! I’m so fucking angry that I’m more than a hundred thousand dollars in debt, that I got into the school that everyone had said I’d never get into and I was so proud and excited and my future was bright until he walked in and decided I didn’t fit in with his narrow, elitist vision of what art is! I’m angry that every critique feels like a personal attack instead of a constructive discussion!”

“Good. What else?” Hannibal prompted when she took a moment to breath heavily, palming at her eyes and then sliding her hands up to fist at her hairline.

“I’m so angry. I’m angry that he belittles my work no matter what I produce. I’m so angry that he took the thing that I loved the most, the talent that made me feel worthy of existence, and just shattered it and any confidence I ever had!”

“That’s very good, Elizabeth. But the most important thing is what you do with that anger.”

“What am I supposed to do with it??” She spat.

“Make good art.”

And so they had ended up here. Dr. Lecter had draped his jacket over the open driver’s side door and rolled up his crisp sleeves in order to bind and tie the professor- it didn’t occur to Elizabeth that he was perhaps too calm because she wasn’t in the most lucid state of mind. She might have broken somewhere along the line, borne away on the flood of her anger to lands unknown. By the time she started to question what she was doing, Hannibal had pressed a hunting knife into her hand, standing so close behind her that she could feel his warmth in the October chill.

“We’ve gone past the point of no return,” He said. “Now we cannot risk releasing him. He’s seen my face, and he very well knows who you are. You must follow through on the actions you have begun.” He was very close, the warmth of his breath stirring her dark hair. He gripped her upper arm gently but firmly as he instructed her. “I want you to meditate on how you could make good art from this situation. How do you improve upon the death of an animal, can you make it sing with romance?” She trembled with violent energy, mind racing with ideas.

“I’m going to make one last piece for you, professor.” She said. The Professor began wriggling in the air, his shouting muffled.


End file.
